Cut Me Deeply
by The . L O S T . Paperclip
Summary: There is a lesson to be taught, and the students are less than ready. Not everyone survives Jigsaw's games. Beware, reader - If you dislike the thought of your favourite characters tking part, then stop reading now... Still here? Good. Let the game begin.
1. Chapter One

_Welcome to Hell, Death Note fans. It is obvious that I do not own Saw or Death Note, otherwise I would publish this crap and make a few bucks. But you should remember that, even though I don't own it, this is still Saw. And we all know that not everyone survives Jigsaw's lessons. If you dislike the thought of your favourite characters taking part, then I implore you to stop reading now._

_. . . Still here? Good. Let the game begin._

_**Cut Me Deeply**_

_**Chapter One**_

-X-

These seven are my students.

_Made the mistake of accepting death as a part of life. _My remedy? Show him that death is not always swift and painless.

_Used those around him to acquire what he wanted. _The cure? Make keeping someone close to him essential to his survival.

_Followed someone blindly, and would be lost without a guide._ Take away her reason to live and let her find her own way.

_Has never seen the world for what it truly is._ Help him realise that sight is not a gift to be taken for granted.

_Broke every rule given to him in life._ Following rules that will be the key to his survival.

_Never looked past what was in front of him._ Thinking things through to affect his immediate future.

_Took lives without regret or remorse._ Turn the tables of power and let others decide his fate.

They are my students.

I am their teacher.

They all hold promise; hold the potential to learn the lessons I am offering. They can open their eyes to the world if they try.

Life is a gift. None of the seven understand that.

Not yet.

But I can teach them. And they can learn.

Live or die.

It is their choice.

-X-

_The rest will be in third person, so do not fear. I may continue, depending on the feedback I get._


	2. Chapter Two

_**Cut Me Deeply**_

_**Chapter Two**_

-X-

"Hello, L."

A pinprick of light pierced the overwhelming darkness. It grew so slowly it was almost painful, eventually illuminating the sole occupant of the room and his surroundings as the television screen was at its brightest. A dark-haired man, wearing loose, faded jeans and no shirt, was lying in a shallow pool of dirt and water. His eyes opened wide and he sat up quickly. A thick metal collar that was attached to the wall before him with a rusty chain rattled around his neck. With the movement, six more chains were revealed; attached to his skin and lodged further into the flesh of his back. Sticky blood covered his body. It was obvious that he had been there for a while before he woke.

L saw the blood on his chest, having seeped around from the wounds in his back, dared not look at the damage. He couldn't feel anything but he knew that pain would return to him if he saw whatever was in his back.

"I am Jigsaw." The voice was almost mechanical; deep and resonating throughout the small tiled room.

L fell back into the puddle in shock, staring fixedly at Jigsaw's infamous puppet. He couldn't fail to notice the tugs in his back as the chains were jostled around in his flesh. It was an unnerving feeling – not yet painful, but holding the promise to be.

The puppet's mouth moved once more, perfectly in time with the voice that came out. It was almost as if it had a mind of its own – a life of its own. "You seem surprised, yet you yourself have used that same tactic to gauge a reaction from the one you call Light Yagami. You found out much from his reaction, as I now know much more about you judging by yours.

"Oh yes, L. I am watching you."

L stayed silent, as flat against the filthy wall as the chains sprouting from his back would let him. The numbness was fading slowly, giving way to a dull throbbing. Pins and needles raced through him – the metaphorical kind. The kind that aren't nearly as painul as the real thing, but they still hurt quite a lot.

"You may be wondering why— you— are— here. This is one of few questions that I will readily answer for you. The reason you are here is you have made a grave mistake." A brief pause. Then, "You do not fear death, L Lawliet. You would welcome it with open arms if it came to you. You believe that it is merely another step to take, and you would make the leap willingly if it so fit the situation."

L never knew that it could be considered _wrong _to not fear. It was not supposed to be a flaw; it was meant to be a major strength of his. He took risks and hoped for the best, and came out on top because he did not hesitate at the thought of his life ending.

Cold fear coursed through his veins. His heart was pounding in his throat.

This was crazy. Insane. It couldn't be happening; least of all to him.

"Well, L Lawliet, you may not fear death – but I know that you fear pain." The puppet spoke slowly, emphasising each word. Lining them in poison and spitting them out like a deadly snake. "An important lesson will be taught to you today. You will cower in the face of death, because you will soon know truly that life is the most precious gift that you can be given.

"A slow acting poison is being fed into the air you are breathing. You have roughly two hours until it begins dissolving your lungs. Your antidote is unavailable to you for the moment, yet when it is – _if_ it will be – you must be ready for it. This all depends on the acts of another student of mine. In order for you to be ready you must escape this room. I am sure you will have realised by now that the only way to do that is by using the device in front of you. But I warn you; the right move at the wrong moment could cost you dearly.

"Live or die, L. Make your choice."

The screen went blank, and the room was shrouded in darkness once more. The only light originated from a tiny green timer above the place the screen was a second ago. It was counting down the hours until his death.

The man was almost overwhelmed by a wave of panic, but he forced himself to think. He had heard about the Jigsaw Killer and his sadistic games. L knew that he was meant to get out alive . . . But he didn't know at what cost.

To find out, he would have to find a light.

The man stood, trying to ignore the pain in his back as the throbbing got painful, and felt along the damp wall for a switch. Sure enough, his fingers trailed over the small device and a dim hanging globe flickered on. The harsh yellow light momentarily blinded the detective.

The room was small; claustrophobic. Not much larger than an average elevator. L could almost feel the walls closing in on him as his vision turned grey. Old and yellowing tiles, bordered with mould, blurred as his gaze darted around the room in a frenzy. Before him, set in the wall, was a large steel door. It looked thick enough to stop an elephant in its tracks. His breath caught and refused to release as the air became thick and senseless around him. L could hardly feel the chains in his back as they writhed like live snakes in a pit.

He couldn't breathe. Air refused to enter his lungs. Maybe that was a good thing, because there couldn't be much air in this room anyway. If he did breathe, he would only die faster.

But in this situation, wouldn't that be something to be desired?

L heard the irrational thoughts running through his head and forced his eyes closed. It was only the claustrophobia talking. He needed to think with his head. Couldn't let fear control him.

The man crouched down slowly, keeping one hand on the wall and the other on one knee. And he breathed.

Jigsaw said he had three hours to live. And if those three hours expired without him acquiring the antidote, he would die of the poison being pumped into the air. For anything to enter the room, something else would be required to leave in order for it to take its place. So if poisonous gas was circulating then normal air must be, too. He wouldn't last the entire three hours if there wasn't a breathable degree of oxygen in the room.

Somehow, the logical thinking helped calm him, despite it being about the time and means of his death.

There was no Watari to open the door for him. L was stuck in here, in this tiny room, until he could get himself out. He just had to figure out how. He began chanting to himself a lullaby that he couldn't remember, yet it came to his tongue like it had been there all along. He spoke the soft words like a mantra, drowning out the fear.

L cracked an eye open. His heart rate was slow and calm now, and he tried not to think of how long he had taken to fend off the waves of panic. Instead, he set his stare onto the door.

A square, neatly cut from the centre of the steel. The chain that was attached to his collar lead into the hollow. A device with gears on either side, like a large metal hose reel, kept it in place, barely visible under the blanket of shadow. But it was enough. Beside the square, on both sides, were two rusty metal handles with a button on the top of each.

L tried to figure out what it was, all the while trying to ignore the pain in his back. But the constant throbbing, mixed in harsh contrast with the sting of mud in open wounds, had brought a prickle of tears to his eyes.

He tried to stay calm. L needed to think. To banish the pain and let the coolness of rational decisions take over.

But there was nothing rational about it. This was all over the top, the pinnacle of a madman's sadistic work. This wasn't justice; this was homicide.

L stopped dead in his tracks.

Homicide? That's not what Jigsaw is doing. Not yet, not on the scale L is used to. No, L was thinking of something . . . someone else. Someone that used to make him feel like he does now on a daily basis. Scared, terrified even, and fearing for his life. But . . . that was different. There was an element of something else with the other person. It was a rivalry fuelled not only by justice. Not by the need to dominate. It was more like . . . the thrill of the ride. The excitement of being on the edge.

Lost in thought. That was how L preferred to spend his days. How he liked to kill time before all of this.

But now time was killing him. Jigsaw was a maniac, and L had an hour and a half to live. He needed to concentrate. After coughing violently, L turned whirled around to inspect the chains in his back. Banishing all thought of his past life.

L screamed silently as he saw what was left of is back.

Flesh had been uprooted to allow room for the chains and whatever came with them into his back. The blood was impossible to ignore. The detective winced at the sight of it. It saturated his skin, kept fresh and wet with the watery mud he had been lying in. He had to stop himself from crying out in pain as his eyes showed him exactly what his mind had been trying to prevent thinking.

L was truly in danger here. He could die, and Jigsaw would not give it a second thought. He would simply be given a 'Fail' on his paper and sent home. Of course the metaphor did no justice to the actual situation, but it was something the detective could relate to. L's knuckles were white around the thick metal. He was shaking violently as he traced them up to the wall, and the device they were attached to. It was another reel, ready to snap the chains taut and haul them, along with anything attached to them, in. Except the collar L was wearing would prevent him from getting very far. L swallowed down the bile that was gathering in the back of his throat.

The chains weren't that deep in his back. He could feel them in muscle, but somewhere between skin and bone they stopped. So maybe . . . taking them out wouldn't do much damage . . . But something else was there, though. Wider, thinner. At the point the chains end. And that would definitely leave a mark. He was beginning to notice more and more of what was happening to him.

L turned back to the door quickly, inspecting it closer, and the movement made him retch violently as the objects embedded in his back were jostled. He could feel them now, and he knew clearly where they were in his flesh. It was too sickening. His stomach heaved violently.

When the sugary contents of his stomach were emptied, L turned away from the half-digested mass and towards the door once more. _Slowly._

The chains moved, and L could feel hot tears spilling down his cheeks. The chains had been jostled around enough to make room for fresh bloodflow out of the wounds.

L gritted his teeth until they ached and clenched his fists around the chain on the collar. He had to keep breathing. He needed to think clearly, through the fuzz that was obscuring his thoughts.

L was sure that this was the 'device' Jigsaw was talking about. Which meant that it was essential to his survival.

After his thoughts were straightened out, what he had to do was obvious. Sickeningly, blindingly obvious.

There were two handles. L had two hands. Buttons in the place his thumbs would normally rest. Mechanical reels attached to the chains. The buttons would activate the reels. The chains would be stretched taut, and then . . .

But what did the puppet mean by 'the right move at the wrong moment'?

He wondered what he did to deserve this. He had been fighting for the good of humanity for his entire life, and there was no way that this was justified. No way at all.

Jigsaw was a maniac. Deranged. Sick logic coming from an equally twisted mind.

But L had to do this.

It was either searing pain in his back, or his organs slowly turning to liquid.

And what about the antidote? What did Jigsaw mean when he said it wasn't available? He . . . had to rely on someone else to get it to him. And . . . if that person didn't make it?

L realised that was meant by the puppet, Jigsaw's avatar, when he said 'the wrong moment'. Getting out too soon would mean that he would still need to wait for the antidote – he refused to think about what would happen if the other person failed – but with six gaping holes in his back. The detective was unsure if the wounds would cause him to die of blood loss, but it was certain that the pain would be undesirable. For any amount of time.

But . . . he could not make himself wait until his time was almost up until he . . .

L took a shaky breath. But it sounded more like a single shuddering sob. The chains in his back wrestled with each other on the tiles behind him.

Just the thought of such pain was making him lose his resolve.

The chains would be ripping themselves out of his flesh. And he would have to aid them in their quest to permanently disfigure his back, or risk being choked to death by the collar. Or maybe crushed with the gears of the reel. And he couldn't rid himself of the irrational fear of suffocation in this elevator-like room.

His lungs were tight and his back was painful to the point of tears. The collar rubbed against his neck until it was red and raw and bloody.

But L knew he had to wait.

The tears continued flowing, hot against his icy skin, as the green timer continued to count down.

-X-

_Interesting? Boring? Too long? Too time-wasting? __I daresay that t__elling me these things will probably improve the story, s__o please do not hesitate to leave constructive criticism._


	3. Chapter Three

_Wow. Just . . . wow. I updated. I mean, I sort of updated. This chapter has been sitting on my computer for godknowshowlong, so I decided to post it. I'm not sure if I'll ever update this story again, I'm afraid, as I have started writing – wait for it – Humour! Yes, I really like funny stories. I have gotten over my brief depression, so I really have no horrible angsty feelings to vent into Horror stories. But then again, with the release of Saw VI and soon Saw VII, I think maybe . . . another chapter or three . . . We can only hope that I end up finishing this story on the funny sickly happy feeling I get when I watch the series, because I still enjoy this story a lot even though I find it difficult to write. I had a whole mindraping plot all laid out, too!_

_I hope this chapter is up to par. I'm not really sure if I like it as much as the last one; what do you guys think? Anyway, I'd like to thank **Bleeding-Strawberry-Jam** for the review that spurred the sudden burst of inspiration, and a certain **Giddy Reader** with my first bit of well-deserved criticism, that had me writing the second part of the chapter. And then I edited and posted on a self-motivated whim. But seriously everyone, your reviews made me smile from ear to ear and jump in utter glee. I love making you guys feel sick! I am quite sick myself, as you can probably tell. I love torturing people, so keep 'em coming! The reviews, I mean. I don't want puke in my mailbox . . . Anyway, this Author's Note was horribly long and for that I am sorry. Just, uh, try to enjoy!_

_**Cut Me Deeply**_

_**Chapter Three**_

-X-

_Click. Whirrrrrrr._

"_Hello," – _a slow, conspicuous dripping sounded; a drop of water, a drop of blood, mud, sweat, urine, something, _anything real in this godforsaken hellhole –_

"_I want to play a game._

"_In the box before you is an antidote, enough for only one person. Behind it is a glass tube with two more; one with the same serum, the other a lethal injection. You will need both to survive this game, but they will both come at a price. Six people will be in the next room when – and if – you escape. Three of these people will be poisoned._

"_For the moment, your task is to wait. It is up to you to decide where to go from there, but be warned: A wrong move will affect everyone._

"_Live or die. Make your choice."_

_Click._

-X-

A slow intake of breath. The stale air tasted stagnant, like this place had not been occupied for an unfathomable amount of time. In his drugged stupor, the man thought this was some practical joke. Or maybe a dream.

Barbed wire was everywhere, and it looked like chunks of people were sewn up in it. Blood coated the mouldy concrete walls; a few hand prints, a few splatters, a few drips sweeping the the dirt to the sides like the red sea. He felt like he had been stewing in his own filth for some time.

A lazy grin tugged at his face.

This was some crazy nightmare. He wondered vaguely where it would take him.

He had always loved nightmares. They were like . . . enjoyable? No, that wasn't it. It was more like they took him away from the world in just as interesting a way as good dreams or games or drugs do. This surreal feeling was something he sought fervently every day, everywhere he went. He was never one to pass up a good nightmare.

Blinking a few times, he stood – instantly regretting the action, as something cut into his scalp. The pain was like a shock of electricity; in dreams, there was only the _illusion _of pain. The quickening of the heartbeat, heat in the head, chest and stomach, the feeling of impending doom. But this . . .

A hand.

This was a hand.

Half-lidded eyes flew open, almost surprised to notice the familiar veil of orange over his eyes was no longer present.

He was definitely not home right now. Not here, not with _this_ in front of his face. Smothered, drowned in bright, bright _red_ red red.

Rather than being scared, for a few seconds Matt paused to appreciated the pain, the image, in wonder . . . and awe.

So this wasn't a dream. It was _something_. Something different. Something interesting.

That is, until the pain actually got _painful_. When the sight got _sickening_. The man hissed through his teeth and ducked under the wire that had cut him, only to find himself standing in the middle of a real, true, _absolute_ nightmare.

He really, _really_ wanted his goggles right now.

It was an elevator shaft. It had to be an elevator shaft. Little floor space and no roof in the blackness above. Razor wire lined the walls in a tangled mess, and there was definitely a lot of blood – _too much, too much red –_ and chunks of _something_ he would rather not think about, lining the walls in abandon.

The goggles were his safety blanket, made, used, _kept solely to protect him from dreams like this_. But not a dream, this was _not_ a dream, because Matt could feel the sharp sting on his scalp.

Only when one of those _something_s moved did Matt realise that they were alive. _Not people, they're not people, they're not real people . . ._ He tried to say something, to himself or to the things hanging in the razor wire, or just to reassure everything he could see, but he couldn't hear a thing. His own voice was drowned somewhere between the open air and his eardrum.

But those _something_s definitely heard. They wriggled and squirmed against the wire like flies trapped in a web. Their mouths moving rapidly, frantically – _nonono not mouths, they can't be people_ – screaming. They were definitely screaming. But Matt couldn't hear a thing; just a lot of buzzing, throbbing, _something_, in the back of his head. It was irritating to the point of being painful. The things moved desperately, and the blood – _there's too much __**red**__ –_ flowed in dried rivers down the dirty stone. They were all looking at him, _screaming at him, he hated people looking at him like that, he just wanted them to go away –_

The screaming silence lifted all at once.

Fire and ice panged in his throat and oozed into the pit of his stomach, coiling and uncoiling like a snake. He realised vacantly, unimportantly somewhere deep in the back of his mind, that he had been given some sort of drug while he had been asleep. The man knew the floaty feeling all too well.

That's not important now – _think straight for once, __**dammit**_– because there are the screaming _something_s-_that-are-not-people _everywhere, asking, demanding, pleading for help and he needed to do something . . .

Matt started as he took a shaky step and sent a small object skittering across the floor.

Upon inspection, Matt realised that it didn't look like it belonged in this death pit.

A tape player.

He gathered that this must have been set up by someone; probably someone he had wronged in the past. It wouldn't be a first, but . . . this was way beyond any calibre of petty revenge he had witnessed. This was sick.

Someone wanted him dead.

Then he realised that it may not be _him_ specifically. Maybe it was the result of the ugly mind of some demented bozo with an inferiority complex who had found the need to shove a bunch of random people into a death trap to prove his own worth, like the school bully times a thousand. Maybe Matt himself didn't even matter; maybe he was just a tool for some feel-good sicko.

Shaking, Matt got on his knees to pick up the old-fashioned cassette player, trying to deny the fact that if he hadn't his legs would have buckled anyway.

With a sharp _click_, his fate was spelled out to him.

"_Hello, Mail Jeevas. You know very well what you have done, and we both know that your reasons are not satisfactory-"_

"-I didn't mean for it to go that far," he pleaded hoarsely, but the tape played on mercilessly-

"_-and that merits punishment. You hid your name and face for years in order to acquire your next fix. You lied, you cheated, you stole, you caused hurt to so many families – you took your natural gifts for granted . . . and then you fell so far, Mail. But I am willing to help you restore your brilliant mind to its former glory._

_"You must climb back to the surface, back to where you were before you fell. But to do that you must learn the pain you have caused others to suffer. Leave quickly and it will be over. Procrastination is not a thing to be proud of. Now your life is the one on this ever-receding line._

"_Live or die, Mail. Make your choice."_

Matt made an excellent impression of a fish out of water. His mouth was opening and closing as if he had more to plead his case, still denying this reality he had been thrust into. Because this was definitely a reality; not some video game, and not a prank. From the way it sounded, it wasn't even revenge for what he did to that kid and her family. It was just . . . someone who had heard about him, maybe followed him for a time . . .

No. Whoever was doing this didn't matter. It was _what_ he was supposed to be doing. According to the tape, whoever this sicko was, he was trying to help. In his own twisted way. There had to be a way out of this. Had to be. He wasn't going to die in here.

Matt clenched his teeth and stood up, avoiding the thin strand of wire that had cut into his head. Walked quickly to the razor wire wall. Put a hand on the wire, wincing as the other landed on a sharp spine. Clenched his teeth harder.

_I have to do this. It won't be so hard, it's just like climbing a tree. With spikes. And dead people. And chunks of dead people._

And then he let go again and started pacing, not allowing himself to think.

But he couldn't wait. And not in the 'eager' sense of the expression. He literally was not able to wait, because _something_ would happen; he supposed it was something bad. There was some clue in the tape; there had to be. An easier way out of this. A back door.

He couldn't unclench his teeth. They were no longer under his command. None of his body was. It just kept pacing, despite how loud his mind was screaming at him to do something productive and get this the hell over with.

He grabbed his hair, let go, threw his arms around, folded them together, kicked the ground.

There was always a back door. There had to be.

-X-

_So. You like? Keep in mind that Matt is a gamer and in this reality a stoner (and a criminal) so he is going to have some hallucinations. The people aren't screaming. They're not alive. They're not even real. Just chunks of rubber and red paint to add to the atmosphere of Saw's game._

_Note: In the previous chapter, L's time limit did indeed keep changing. Sorry about that. -_-' But I have decided that L has one hour left. I spurn your logic, Giddy Reader. (And thank you silently for not laughing at my stupidity. :D)_

_A review would motivate me so much, you guys. I am going to plan out the next few chapters and hope the muse allows me to carry on writing. Thank you so much for all the support thus far!_


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